


Hawk Sang the White of the Moon

by orphan_account



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, 1fandom, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-10
Updated: 2006-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>50 sentences for 1fandom, prompt table #9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawk Sang the White of the Moon

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Num.** |  **Prompt** |  **Sentence**  
---|---|---  
**01** | Crave | No name for it, needed it gone, though, and fast; when the whiskey doesn't do its job, he picks up the car keys, fingers trembling, drives too slow across town, and can't hardly look at himself the next morning.  
**02** | None | Tomorrow, yesterday, now, none of that mattered—they were, always.  
**03** | Glue | So full of desperate that he couldn't have taken his hands off even if he'd wanted, charging ahead into terrain unmapped, areas unseen, a secret once his territory alone now claimed as theirs.  
**04** | Wet | River couldn't hold all the tears he had to offer.  
**05** | Fame | "Got nothin worth bein famous for," he said, matter-of-fact, and Jack wanted to toss that mug of spit right in his face.  
**06** | Instant | Boot on gravel, leather on trailer, wind all around, eyes skittering, skittering, crossed paths shorter than a blink, but that was all it took.  
**07** | Hold | "Now hold on just one minute," the pencil nearly cracked between her fingers, "you're goin a be gone _how_ long?"  
**08** | Fish | "Can cut the heads off for you," the man said, but Jack declined, and told him not to bother to wrap them, either.  
**09** | Don't | The tight line of her shoulders and choked voice told him to stop, but he just closed his eyes and welcomed the dark that told him that it was all right, all right.  
**10** | Ego | Every bump on the road to Juarez felt like broken glass to a man stripped of his pride.  
**11** | Flow | Earl to Rich, Ennis and him, made sense he guessed, but not the kind of sense he cared to think about.  
**12** | Dream | Seen it born, seen it die—hadn't hardly seen it grow, though, and thought that might be the damndest shame of them all.  
**13** | Actions | Tire irons could hit two ways.  
**14** | Enough | Fingers clenched so hard on the postcard that it bent, but he wouldn't ask for another: one had done it.  
**15** | Green | Color of the stems that broke off in his hands was like bleeding earth, dripping river freshness in between his fingers as he sunk into a whole other kind of earth, bucking and crying out under him, not in pain, but in time with the gusts of the wind.  
**16** | Metaphor | One-shot thing that stretched into twenty years had to be some kind of fuckin metaphor if you asked him.  
**17** | Teach | "Taught you everthin I know, boy, fuckin all, so don't you go telling me what I can and can't do with my very own wife."  
**18** | Demand | "Don't you _dare_ turn away from me, Jack Twist, or mark my words, I ain't never goin a look at you like a man again."  
**19** | Inspire | Mountain had never looked so full of promise.  
**20** | Unrequited | She wished desperately that she could hate him the day that her son died.   
**21** | Classic | His fingers hovered above the restored finish, afraid to touch, "She's a beaut, Mr. Stoutamire—sure wish I could afford somethin like this," but not for himself, he failed to add.  
**22** | Far | Fire dying and two feet had never seemed so far to cross.  
**23** | May | It'd be May until he could breathe again.  
**24** | Breadth | Dreamed about wrapping his arms all around it, holding onto that black mass, falling into it, settling with the logs at the fire, but didn't feel like home with only him inside.  
**25** | Wrench | No tools to fix this, jimmy it back into shape, but he held it together anyway through the blood and scrapes, because he didn't know any other way to keep living.  
**26** | Hope | Francine closes the shade, sighing; Daddy won't be home for church today.  
**27** | Scent | Smiled when she realized—Ennis del Mar, smoking pot?—and wondered what else he might be hiding.  
**28** | Pastel | Sun didn't set right that night, like Ennis had taken all its colors up to the sheep with him when he'd left that morning.  
**29** | Artist | God had surely broken the mold with this man.  
**30** | Sorrow | Man could only live with it so long, but every morning he welcomed it, tasted it in his coffee, lived it—even dying would be too easy for him.  
**31** | Path | Roads couldn't seem to keep straight and narrow under his feet, no matter how carefully he placed his boots, and after he came down from the mountain that second time he didn't even bother to watch them anymore, all twisted up under him, sure enough.  
**32** | Wood | Smooth, real smooth, worn down by age, or maybe by the touch of a young boy who dreamed too big for this small little room, fingers clutched tight to the only hero he'd ever known.  
**33** | Acceptance | "One's enough," and the words felt just right.  
**34** | Yet | "Well, when, daddy?" Bobby didn't understand why nine was too young just to hold a stupid fishing pole.  
**35** | Shiver | No jacket, no gloves even though it was five below—cold didn't touch him no more, didn't even shiver 'gainst the keening north winds.  
**36** | Hero | His illusions shattered the morning he watched his daddy puke up four days worth of drinking, crying sickness into that toilet bowl.  
**37** | Body | All his caring was buried on those mourning plains of Texas.  
**38** | Man | Only ashes of the man left now, shame the only thing holding him at the seams nowadays.  
**39** | Pretend | She didn't see him stuffing it into his back pocket, sneaky-like, and she sure as hell didn't see him keep it in every pair of his jeans until the trip two months later, touching it like it was sacred, a fucking _postcard_, sacred.  
**40** | Curious | First four years of their marriage she'd been curious, but one turn of the doorknob and Ennis breathless like she'd never seen him had taken care of that.  
**41** | Different | Liked that he was different from the second she saw him—polite, gentlemanly, a little bit of impulsive, just like her—so who knew that twenty four years she'd be damning him to hell for what she thought she'd loved at nineteen.  
**42** | Smooth | Moon notched high just as easy as he notched against Jack and, for one moment in that euphoric air, they flew with it, dreams on the back of the hawk and sighs spilling out stars onto the black sky.  
**43** | Right | "Francine don't want to see you," her voice barely made it through the crack in the doorway, "You can go take it up with the courts you got a problem."  
**44** | Damn | Good girls didn't swear but seeing her daddy drive up with that strange woman sure made her want to.  
**45** | Desire | Wants to hear a harmonica stumble over a note so bad that his nails draw blood from his palms.  
**46** | Ritual | Sun, rise, coffee, biscuits, ride, herd, return, beans and potatoes, dark, fire, whiskey, warmth, shared, blankets, skin, hot, down and out.  
**47** | Color | Drained out of the sky and collected in the face across from him, twilight caught, distilled, smiling over the flames.  
**48** | Visit | When he smiled, it was rusty at the edges, and she hugged him, quietly deciding that she best start visiting twice a week—it wouldn't be long now.  
**49** | Belong | Revered with unspoken oath hung the only place he'd ever belonged, the imagined power made real once more when the three words fought their way up his throat.  
**50** | Bully | Kicked the smug right out of that jaw and brought fear into its place, no satisfaction in it because even the boom of the fireworks couldn't stop him from hating the man that brought fear into the wild columbine.


End file.
